Tough luck
by Crazypreacher
Summary: Okay, this is not MY fic, this is just my translation of this one fic I really liked. All credit goes to the author, Nichja. The story deals with Jafar's life before the events of the movie and... saying much else would be a spoiler, really. Warning: slash.


The room is chilly, but airless. The lamp smoulders dimly, partially revealing a splendid heavy canopy, cushions and tenacious bony fingers of the chamber's master that are grasping at the hookah's hose. Everything else is concealed by shadows.

"Are you even going to smoke, anyway?" an annoyed creaking voice asks.

"That doesn't concern you," the chamber's master answers gloomily.

"Shaitan take you!" beside annoyance, it's almost like there's a hint of fright in that voice now. A large, well-fed parrot lands in the light. He reaches out with his beak to the man's hand and tries to pull the hose out, but to no avail – the man clenches his fist abruptly.

The parrot jumps aside, his feathers bristling, and yells:

"Jafar! Stop this travesty! I can't stand the way you're showing off!"

"Shut up, Iago" – Jafar turns his head slightly – "and let me think in peace".

"Of what?" – having jumped aside – just in case – Iago steps back into light again. – "Of what, I do wonder? Let me guess!"

But for some reason he doesn't make any guesses. Instead, he flies up with difficulty to the Grand Vizier's shoulder and pecks his cheekbone lightly.

"Forget it, Jafar," he mutters. "There's no use".

* * *

Same chamber, four years ago.

The two are poring over the papers spread out between them. One is older, he is extremely lean and tall and easy to recognise as Jafar. The other is younger, about thirty, with a sturdy build and a lively face that doesn't look particularly trustworthy, either. He is smirking and tossing a pouch that he has just received.

"Very good, Ghassan," Jafar says. "These are exactly the papers I needed. Another couple of tasks, carried out with equal brilliance, and you are set to enjoy your old age in prosperity".

"Are you suggesting I retire right after that?" Ghassan asks carelessly. His carelessness is of the same nature as that of a cat watching a mouse that has dropped its guard.

"In a couple of years, if nothing… completely unforeseen happens," Jafar answers stand-offishly through his teeth, "I will become the Sultan of Agrabah. But if you are not interested…"

"You do have a way with words, my Lord." – There's only the smallest touch of ridicule in his words, but it's there. – "I would prefer to enjoy my old age in luxury."

Jafar raises his head. They both are grinning, and their grins seem to mirror each other.

* * *

Back in the present day.

There's a gurgling sound coming from the hookah and a faint smell of hashish.

"When I have the lamp…" Jafar utters slowly, as if weighing every word, no – every sound.

"When you have the lamp," Iago interrupts, "you'll think of way more beneficial wishes. I could bet all the feathers in my tail on it! So don't you pull my…"

"Mind your manners, Iago," reminds him Jafar, shaking the parrot off his shoulder.

He flies off somewhere into the darkness.

"My apologies, Your Grace," he answers from there in a sarcastic voice, "for being unable to truly appreciate Your noble intentions."

"There's nothing noble about it," Jafar says in a stifled voice and falls into a coughing fit from the smoke. "Argh, damn it! You know it perfectly well, my cynical friend, that this is as noble as an usurer taking a jewel as a pledge, so that he may gain profit."

"You flatter me," Iago retorts coolly from somewhere in the darkness. "There's just one jewel around: your precious diamond in the rough, Aladdin."

"Lucky little bastard," Jafar mutters. "Don't change the subject, Iago."

* * *

Three and a half years ago.

A small low table lavishly set. At the table on the cushions – a host and a guest, Jafar and Ghassan.

"Some wine?" the Vizier asks, gesturing towards a filigree bottle.

"This is against the law of the Prophet," Ghassan looks up, as if obtesting the heavy stone ceiling instead of Heaven to be his witness.

"Do you really still hope to go to Heaven, Ghassan?" Jafar wonders.

"This was not a refusal, you know," the other man answers softly.

Jafar nods and reaches out for the bottle to pour both himself and his guest some wine. Ghassan is obviously flattered, but also somewhat alerted by such a display of respect. He knows Jafar rather well already. They are drinking. Jafar lies back lazily against the pillows.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," he says. "Are you afraid of me?"

Ghassan thinks for a moment.

"I am wary of you," he answers. "You are like a snake."

The Vizier's kohled eyes flare.

"This is correct," he says. "And you, Ghassan, do you not think yourself a mongoose?" – his fingers tighten around the goblet with wine.

"No," the other man says calmly, changing his position slightly – ever so slightly – to be able to pull out his knife just in case. "I am not a mongoose. But I am not a stupid bird, either, my Lord."

Jafar puts his goblet down and looks Ghassan in the eye, until he turns away. But he is not defeated, and there is a grin hiding under his mustache. Jafar looks down as well. He reaches out and takes a piece of peach from the dish.

"I've heard you've gotten yourself into some trouble, Ghassan."

Ghassan's face falls.

"I have," he says.

"We could discuss it, if you wish," the Vizier utters quietly, and his guest looks up in wonder.

* * *

Present day.

"Foolishness," Iago says. "This is foolishness, and you know it yourself. It has been more than two years. Even I have gotten used to it."

"_You_ may have," Jafar says, almost with hatred.

* * *

Three years ago.

"Nice place, my Lord. A garden of paradise. The only thing missing are houris."

"To hell with houris," Jafar says distractedly. "What's the matter with your arm?"

"Ahmed the Heavy sends his regards," Ghassan answers angrily.

"Yet you have delivered the goods," Jafar stops and turns towards his emissary.

"By the blood of Iblis, I have! You've seen it yourself!"

The Vizier's deadly glare stops him.

"I know I'm wrong about you," Jafar says suddenly. "I know it. It would be all too good, if it was true – I don't believe in ideas, or in fear, or even in money. Then what? Or, rather, why?"

Ghassan is looking down, to the ground, at the motley grass around his dandy boots.

"If it makes you feel better, my Lord," he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, "I would betray you, if my life was at stake."

Jafar is silent for a couple of moments, and then he starts laughing.

"Sometimes I think you're my brother," he says through the laughter. "Were you, by any chance, switched at birth?"

Ghassan is silent, and the Vizier stops laughing as well.

Suddenly he pulls his emissary closer to himself, locking him in a half-embrace with one arm.

"We shall deal with Ahmed," Jafar says distinctly into Ghassan's ear. He feels the other man breath in, but Ghassan says nothing. Jafar tightens his grip, as if the emissary is going to flee from his grasp. "You want to ask something? Ask now."

"Same question," Ghassan says under his breath, but Jafar can hear him fine. "Why?"

Jafar breaks the embrace. He bites his lip. His bilious face grows blank.

"A good question," he says through his teeth. "But the answer will hardly please you."

Ghassan squints.

"I would prefer to judge it for myself," he answers in the same tone.

"Save your valiancy for a more appropriate hour, my impertinent friend," Jafar says distinctly, his eyes glistening dangerously. At that Jafar turns around and leaves.

Ghassan is left standing and pressing his wounded arm to his stomach. He doesn't feel like following Jafar with his eyes.

* * *

Back in the present day.

The man and the parrot are sitting motionless and silent opposite each other.

"Why in Jahannam have I gotten into this," Iago breaks the silence.

"You're free to get lost anytime," Jafar snaps.

Back to silence.

* * *

More than two and a half years ago.

It's almost midnight, and the third game of backgammon is underway. The first game was won by Jafar, the second by Ghassan.

"I get the feeling we're leading each other on," Jafar utters, gathering the checkers.

"We are doing exactly that, my Lord."

Jafar rolls the dice and covers them with his hand without looking.

"Fine, I've lost," he says, completely serious. He closes the board, mixing the checkers together.

Ghassan strokes his mustache nervously.

"So, you don't plan on going to Heaven, either, your Grace?" he asks.

"No." – Jafar grins hideously. – "I think a much more correct answer would be – I plan on going to Hell. Sharing your company, at that."

Jafar's fingers dig into Ghassan's shoulders. Ghassan doesn't even wince.

"As you understand, this is my answer."

Ghassan raises his hands and wraps them around Jafar's wrists.

"My entire life I've been dreaming of getting stoned to death," he says. There are devils dancing in his eyes.

"They won't dare," Jafar answers, baring his teeth. He seizes Ghassan's neck and yanks him closer.

In this moment, there is a true resemblance between them.

"Here I am, on the first-name basis with the Grand Vizier of Agrabah," Ghassan says slowly, grinning from ear to ear. "One hundred gold pieces are mine. Should have bet two hundred."

"You scum," Jafar hisses tenderly, before kissing him on the lips. The Vizier's fingers grip and crumple Ghassan's collar. He returns the kiss with the same ferocity, biting Jafar's lips.

They both are enjoying insanely what's happening, and at the same time it feels as if they are raving. Their passion is rough, but it's burning in their minds, rather than in their loins. They are not saying a word, the only audible sound is their ragged, avid breathing. They both lower themselves on the cushions, entwined by anger, rather than by love, by their need for physical force, for intertwined fingers, for bruises from the merciless grip. And fatigue comes before ecstasy.

* * *

Present day.

"I have no idea, what damn profit you got from it, but I'll be thrown to hungry cats, if you didn't," Iago keeps on nagging and finally tips Jafar over the edge:

"Wonder what damn profit I got from not sharing my bed with anyone after you died!"

A couple of seconds of mutual dumbfounded silence.

"Really?..."

"Kus ommak!.." – But there's no point in lying now. – "Yes."

"You prrretty idiot," Iago blurts, stunned and almost amazed. He has never sounded so parrot-like before.

Jafar kicks the hookah down. It clatters against the floor, spilling the wine and scattering the burnt-out coals.

* * *

Over two years ago.

Ghassan's body with his throat slit is lying on a pedestal. Ahmed's gang has finally got the Grand Vizier's emissary. The stakes are adorned with the ruffians' heads, Ahmed himself is quartered, but the vengeance has seemed savourless to Jafar. He is focused and collected. The conjuration that is ahead of him is almost beyond the strength of a mortal sorcerer. He could raise the body, creating a brainless servant, he could summon the spirit and tell that he has avenged him… tell everything there is to tell, but Jafar refuses to take half-measures. He forbade himself from taking half-measures the moment one of his confidant warders, being scared out of his mind, reported to him that Ahmed's gang had been captured, but two people had been lost, including Ghassan al-Riwani. The Vizier had the body taken to his basement and has been preparing the conjuration for three days, with only a three-hour break to have a sleep. The time was running out, and so were the chances for success, but there was no other way. The reunion of the soul and the body is not a task one can take on without any preparations.

Jafar approaches the altar, raises his staff and starts chanting. He is chanting for a long time. He is chanting, until the room starts filling up with something that looks like greenish slimy smoke. He understands that it doesn't work but still doesn't drop the staff. And only when he hears the yell from the corner, the yell that is familiar and ordinary, but in this situation simply nightmarish… only then he turns to the cage with his pet parrot Iago. The pet is screaming – in a creaking bird's voice, but the one that is full of human terror. Jafar drops the staff. The smoke dissolves.

"Tough luck," he says aloud in deathly voice, knowing that he is going to fall unconscious.

And before falling to the floor, he hears the words that will haunt him in his nightmares:

"What? What is it?! Jafar! I… what have you done to meeee?!"

* * *

Present day.

"You blundering juggler, if you think I'll agree to try _again_… Being a parrot is not that bad. At least, I can talk. If something goes wrong again, I'll end my days as a dumb sheep or a wicked dog… No, thank you very much."

"Fine. As you wish," Jafar has already pulled himself back together enough to return to his usual manner of conversation. "I won't insist. You're right about one thing, though – enough of this abstinence for me. Think I'll marry someone… say, princess Jasmine. That's what you suggested, right?"

"I don't give a damn, even if you marry Aladdin. In holy love happily ever after."

"And you'll remain a parrot."

"My pleasure."

Jafar smirks crookedly. He knows Ghassan well enough to know empty blabbering from actual intentions. He knows Ghassan al-Riwani will agree to try, even at a risk of falling right into Iblis' maw. Sometimes Jafar even thinks he knows Ghassan better than himself.

He holds out his hand. Iago grins and flies to his shoulder. They leave the room together.

* * *

The original (in Russian): slashfiction . ru / story . php ? story = 1080


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